This is not a 911 story
by Red Tale
Summary: Not something that can be explained in one sentence, but that its in response to other 911 stories I've seen the turtles in
1. Introduction

This is not a 9-11 story...  
By Red Turtle  
Rated: PG 13 for very serious situation, but there is no sex and little if any bad words  
  
I noticed people often put poems before their stories to set the mood. My story begins with a poem I found on the internet that to me really captured the sadness and shock from 9-11 but by connecting us to the world, and it was part of what inspired me to write this story, knowing that someone else out there was sick of 9-11 being reduced to such a bland description of good vs. evil. The other part was knowing at least one family being torn apart by the search for terrorists, and feeling that, if the turtles were real, after sharing the horror everyone felt on 9-11, they would do what's right, not what's American. The main character of this story is based off a child I know personally, and a persona of all children, including myself, who have ever dared to struggle against all the convential norms to do what they see as right, because children don't always obey the rules. Don't forget the turtles were only thirteen when they murdered Oroku Saki, so I don't think this is to far for an imagination. The child this is based off of did not, to my knowledge, ever attempt a serious rescue effort, but his passion is captured here (I changed the names and combined circumstances of all involved to avoid any legal problems, this is purely fictional). This story does have the ninja turtles in it, but it principally is the story of this boy.  
  
By the way, I divided the story into three parts, this introduction, the poem and then the actual story. I did them all at once, so they are all accessable now because I don't believe in doing parts at different times. I am new to that technique but it seems to have worked okay. Also, the particular computer I am using right now has problems with word 97, so some things might be a bit jumbled but hopefully its readable. 


	2. Poem

This is not a 9/11 poem  
  
Before I start this poem, I'd like to ask you to offer up a moment of silence in honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the Pentagon last September 11th.  
  
I would also like to ask you to give a moment of silence for all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned, disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes, for the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.  
  
And if I could just add one more thing. A full day of silence. for the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the hands of U.S.-backed Israeli forces over decades of brutal occupation.  
  
Six months of silence. for the million and-a-half Iraqi people, mostly children, who have died of malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S. embargo against the country.  
  
Before I begin this poem, two months of silence. for the Blacks under Apartheid in South Africa, where "homeland security" made them aliens in their own country.  
  
Nine months of silence. for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where death rained down and peeled back every layer of concrete, steel, earth and skin and the survivors went on as if alive.  
  
A year of silence. for the millions of dead in Viet Nam - a people, not a war - for those who know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their relatives bones buried in it, their babies born of it.  
  
A year of silence. for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of a "secret war" ssssshhhhh.. Say nothing. we don't want them to learn that they are dead. Two months of silence. for the decades of dead in Colombia, whose names, like the corpses they once represented, have piled up and slipped off our tongues.  
  
Before I begin this poem, An hour of silence. for El Slvador An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua Two days of silence for the Guetmaltecos None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.  
  
45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal. 25 years of silence. for the hundred million Africans who found their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could poke into the sky. There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains. For those who were strung and swung from the heights of sycamore trees in the south. the north. the east. the west.  
  
100 years of silence. for the hundreds of millions of indigenous people from this half of right here, Whose land and lives were stolen, In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek, Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears. Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the refrigerator of our consciousness.  
  
So you want a moment of silence? And we are all left speechless Our tongues snatched from out mouth Our eyes stapled shut  
  
A moment of silence And the poets have all been laid to rest The drums disintegrating into dust  
  
Before I begin this poem, You want a moment of silence. You mourn now as if the world will never be the same And the rest of us hope to hell it won't be. Not like it always has been  
  
Because this is not a 9-1-1 poem this is a 9/10 poem, It is a 9/9 poem, A 9/8 poem, A 9/7 poem.  
  
This is a 1492 poem. This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written And if this is a 9/11 poem, then This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1973 This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977 This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison, New York,1971. This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes  
  
This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks and Time/Life cofeetable treasures. The 110 stories that that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and Newsweek ignored This is a poem for interrupting this program.  
  
And still you want a moment of silence for the dead? We could give you lifetimes of empty: The unmarked graves The lost languages The uprooted trees and histories The dead stares on the faces of nameless children  
  
Before I start this poem we could be silent forever Or just long enough to hunger, For the dust to bury us And you would still ask us For more of our silence.  
  
So if you want a moment of silence Then stop the oil pumps Turn off the engines and the televisions Sink the cruise ships Crash the stock markets Unplug the marquee lights Delete the instant messages Derail the trains, the light rail transit If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window of Taco Bell, And pay the workers for wages lost Tear down the liquor stores, The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the Penthouses and the Playboys.  
  
If you want a moment of silence, Then take it On Super Bowl Sunday, The Fourth of July During Dayton's 13 hour sale Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful people have gathered  
  
You want a moment of silence Then take it Now, Before this poem begins. Here, in the echo of my voice, In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand In the space between bodies in embrace, Here is your silence Take it. But take it all Don't cut in line. Let your silence begin at history's beginnings.  
  
And we, Tonight we will keep right on singing For our dead. 


	3. This is not a 911 story

Part I  
  
Night had fallen across New York. Mo had packed all of his things that afternoon, but was waiting until well past midnight before he ventured outside. He couldn't sleep. Too much nervous energy. His room was in the basement, so he decided he could get away with practicing climbing up a make shift rope ladder and jumping down. He had never done what he was attempting to do tonight, and didn't really know how to prepare. He reread the sewer map he had downloaded off the Internet, and different things he had read about sewers, security systems and jail. He had to be careful though; even though he was only twelve years old he knew all too well that he couldn't behave suspiciously, or else...  
  
His eyes blurred with tears at the reminder of his father. Damn it, he needed to be able to control that. What would happen if tonight, in the middle of the rescue, he cried? Then he would be captured too. He had to control his emotions. When he finally found his father, he had to be strong and lead them outside, and only when they were safe could he hug him. If he failed, he had to at least be strong enough to get back outside. This might take more than one night to accomplish. It was a big jail, and Mo didn't know where inside his father was. But he did feel destined to go on this mission. It was a Muslims duty to fight injustice; his namesake Mohammad would have done no less. Course, Mohammad could have rallied an army to storm the prison, and instead Mo had to rely on himself. He couldn't even tell anyone at school for fear they would report him. They were already calling him Osama and even the teachers were noticeably cooler to him after September 11th. His Mosque was scared, all of them. They offered sympathy to him and his mother and told them it would be okay, just cooperate and everything will be fine. Well, that didn't work.  
  
He took a deep breathe, gathered his pack with his maps, flashlight, water, knife, string to keep his way and gloves so he didn't leave fingerprints. He very quietly left the house. His mother was asleep upstairs. Alone. As he left, he took a long look at the eviction notice taped to the door, imprinting in his mind how desperately he needed to get his father back, and not just because he missed him. They had ten days, and he knew they had nowhere to go after that.  
  
Part II  
  
Mo walked the dark, empty streets to an area near his school where he had seen an open manhole in the middle of a construction site. The area was blocked off enough to discourage casual walkers, but not someone determined as him. He scrambled over the mounds of rubble, and approached the open manhole, relieved it hadn't been covered. It was when he spotted this earlier today that his plan ultimately came together. His early attempts to open manholes himself had been futile. A big hose ran into it, apparently accomplishing some task. He turned on his flashlight and observed the water to be minimal, so in he went.  
  
Now, having reached this stage of commitment, he had to steady himself from the pounding of his heart. It wasn't so bad under here, he assured himself. According to the map, this would be easy. It wasn't that far away. He tied the string to keep track.  
  
However, the map and the reality seemed to differ, especially when the tunnel he was in made a sharp turn away from the Federal Detention Center. Mo had figured he would explore this until four thirty, and then head back home so he could be back in time for ablution and prayer and then to go to school. It was about two in the mourning now, so he figured he could explore a little more.  
  
His string ran out, but the tunnel was straight for a while. He decided to go with out the string and just not make any turns. He drank some water and proceeded.  
  
A while passed in silence and darkness except for his flashlight, which provided little light. Suddenly, something grabbed Mo from behind and made him drop the flashlight.  
  
"What the hell are you doing down here, kid?", a voice demanded.  
  
When being grabbed, Mo was reminded of Mohammad's first encounter with an angel which had smothered him, and since he already felt he was doing Gods work his first thought was that an angel had chosen him as a prophet. But angles don't talk like that, and it would already know what he was doing. Maybe it was a test of his strength.  
  
"I am here to free my father!", he yelled powerfully. His voice had only recently finished changing to allow him that kind of response with out cracking.  
  
"What?!", the figure holding him asked.  
  
"My father is being held prisoner, and I have come to rescue him! Let me go or you will face God's wrath!", Mo continued. He added a quote from the Koran, but I cannot translate here as this keyboard does not allow Arabic, and it can't be expressed in English.  
  
"Are you nuts?", the figure demanded, "What is this, some kind of game? You're going to get killed down here!"  
  
"Then I will die with honor!", Mo responded.  
  
The figure let him go.  
  
"You're serious, aren't you?", It asked quietly.  
  
"Yes", Mo answered, also quietly. He couldn't see the figure but sensed it was bigger and stronger than he was.  
  
"Look, kid, you can't run around the sewers like this. Why don't you come back with me and you can tell my family the whole story, okay? Maybe we can rescue your father for you."  
  
Mo weighed this.  
  
"You can help me, but I must be the one who does it", he replied.  
  
"Whatever. Come on, kid."  
  
The figure took Mo's hand and led him down the sewers. They passed the part where Mo had left his string, and then went down a different tunnel. Now Mo had to trust the figure completely, because he would never find his way back.  
  
"So what's your name?", the figure asked, startling the quiet.  
  
"My name is Mohammad. You can call me Mo."  
  
The figure stopped.  
  
"Mohammad?"  
  
"Yeah. It's a very sacred name. You got a problem with that?", Mo challenged, drawing himself to his full height. He was constantly teased at school about his name, especially after September 11th, but it was a very popular and honorable name.  
  
"No...I just never met anyone with that name. My names Raphael, but you can call me Raph."  
  
"I know a kid named Raphael. He's a bully at my school", Mo informed him.  
  
"I'm not a bully. I was named after a renaissance artist. You study the Renaissance?"  
  
"No."  
  
They continued in silence until the reached the liar. Everything was dark until they stepped in to the living room, and Mo could never have found the lair with out Raph's help.  
  
  
  
Part III  
  
"Hey, everyone, wake up!", Raph yelled, turning on all the lights. And only then did Mo realize he had been following a large turtle through the sewers. He immediately bowed to the ground. Only God could have sent something like this to help on his quest. God really did want him to save his father.  
  
Raph didn't notice Mo, he ran to the bedrooms to wake up his brothers and Splinter. When they all emerged, they had to run their eyes at the sight of the small boy kneeling in their living room.  
  
"Please, stand, my child", Splinter asked him.  
  
Mo hadn't seen Splinter come in, the sight of the giant rat made him jump up when originally he had been planning a slow, dignified rise.  
  
"My name is Splinter, and these are my sons, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, and you have already met Raphael."  
  
"My name is Mohammad", he said. He was trying to do it in the powerful voice he had used on Raphael, but it came out as a whisper.  
  
"Please, Mohammad, tell us your story", Splinter said. The others sat around him. Donatello and Michelangelo were bleary and red-eyed. Their lives led to a lot of unstable, unpredictable events, and at least this one didn't seem to involve anyone dying.  
  
"My father, Nasser Mubeen, he is unjustly imprisoned and I need to rescue him."  
  
"Who kidnapped your father?", Splinter asked carefully.  
  
Mohammad need a minute to formulate this. He blurted it out faster than he meant.  
  
"They came to our house and told him that they just had some questions and they needed his help. He went with them. We didn't hear from him for weeks, and then we got a phone call. He begged my mom to get a lawyer and save him. She got a lawyer, but we couldn't be at the trail. They said that my father might be a terrorist, so we couldn't see him. Now they told us he would be deported. He will be sent to Pakistan, and I will never see him again! I have to save him!"  
  
At this Mo began to sob heavily. If these beings were sent by God to help him, he could cry in front of them. Michelangelo was the closest and the most sympathetic, so he hugged Mo. Donatello provided some tissue, and Leo made some tea, thinking the kid must be hungry and weak.  
  
Splinter allowed a sufficient amount of time for Mo to stop crying and drink the tea.  
  
"So, the government has your father?", Splinter clarified.  
  
"Yes. I know they are a powerful enemy, but I-"  
  
"We can't break your father out of prison!", Raph interrupted. He couldn't believe he had brought this crazy kid here.  
  
"You won't help me?! You dogs! Karama La (roughly, no dignity)!"  
  
Mo leaped up and almost ran out, but Mike held him back.  
  
"Hey, little dude, wait", he said.  
  
"We did not say we wouldn't help you", Splinter assured him, "And Raphael, please control your outbursts. This is obviously a very grave matter that must be considered carefully."  
  
Mo relaxed in Michelangelo's arms.  
  
"How do you know where he is if you haven't been able to see him?"  
  
"Our lawyer talked to him in there. He had called us from there. They won't tell us what room though. We can't write or call or anything. I haven't seen him in five months. But I know he is in there."  
  
"When do they deport him?"  
  
"They didn't tell us that either. I don't know. That's why I have to save him now!"  
  
"Does your mother know where you are?"  
  
"N-no. She wouldn't want me to go. She's scared."  
  
The other turtles didn't say anything while Splinter quizzed him. By this time it was about three in the mourning.  
  
"Listen", Splinter ordered, "We need to think about this. Leonardo will escort you back to your home, and tomorrow evening we will meet you again with our decision. Is that acceptable?"  
  
Mo agreed to that decision and for Leonardo to take him home. His home was forty minutes away by walking, allowing for him and Leo to get to know each other better. Although not sure how he felt about the mission Mo was proposing, Leo admired the boy's convictions. After all, he wasn't much older than Mo when he assassinated Oroku Saki for his father's honor, and that had been a rather unorthodox mission by most standards. Also, Mo's love for his father showed when the boy spoke of him, telling Leo that his father must be a decent man, and for that Leo was willing to risk the mission. Most of the discussion the way there was about honor, and lead to religion, which Mo was more than happy to explain to Leo. Imagine, if he saved his father and converted mutant turtles he would get into heaven for sure! For his part, Leo had not ever heard about Islam outside of the news footage after September 11th, and while he wasn't planning to be anything but a Buddhist like Splinter, he appreciated the kid's passion for it. It was like his passion for Ninjizu.  
  
Part IV  
  
Mo barely concentrated all day. He had wanted to tell his mom he was sick and not go to school, but again he didn't want to be suspicious. Besides, it was too depressing to stay home. His mom would be home all day, waiting by the phone in case her husband called, or the lawyer said they could visit. Before his disappearance she had been very lively, and very motherly to Mohammad. Now it was all she could do to make sure he had food, and even that was becoming less frequent. They had sold almost all their possessions to pay the bills, because of course Nasser had lost his job after being detained for so long, and with out knowing when or if he was being released it had been hard to prepare for the future. She didn't even pray every day anymore, which had in turn made Mo more committed so that God would maybe overlook her carelessness in favor of his extra worship.  
  
After school he had walked home at an even pace, although he really wanted to run. Once there he prepared like he had yesterday, with exercises, jumping, climbing, ect. He tired himself out and even his nervousness didn't prevent sleep from overtaking him. When he woke up, it was evening. He found that all there was in the fridge was some bread and butter, so he ate that with water. He didn't mind the sacrifice they were going through now because he knew that once his father was saved it would all be better.  
  
Almost as soon as he was done eating Leo knocked on his window. Mo immediately gathered his things and decided not to bother sneaking out. Five months ago his Mom would have given him the third degree, but now he didn't think she even noticed him leave.  
  
Together, they traveled to meet Splinter and the others. Leo had to carry Mo up a building to reach the meeting place, and Mo loved it. It made the experience more real, he was climbing a building to save his father. Once there, the ninja turtles told Mo their decision, they had decided to rescue his father. (Leo and Splinter had been the principal arguers for, and Raph was against but went with the collective group. Don and Mike were agnostic about it, but were swayed by Leo's decision.)  
  
Part V  
  
The accomplished it amazingly easily, however out of respect for national security I won't lay out any details. Nasser had been overjoyed, to say the least. He had been praying for God to save him, but had not expected anything like this (he was thinking more that God would touch the heart of the immigration judge or something and he would be released). When they rejoined him with Mo in the sewers, both hugged and rejoiced. Seeing that reunion, even Raph decided they had done the right thing. They both thanked them emphatically.  
  
"You are very welcome. I'm glad we could help."  
  
But Mo had one more request.  
  
"I fear they will come back to our house to get us. Please...can my mother and father and me stay down here with you?"  
  
Nasser was surprised by this request. He hadn't thought about what he would do with his freedom.  
  
"I believe we can find a place for you. At least until this war on terrorism is over", Splinter proclaimed.  
  
Mo again translated for his father. Nasser looked around at what would be his new home. He desired a real bed and rooms to walk in, but after what he had been through he wasn't going to be choosy. It wasn't a jail cell and it wasn't a foreign country he hadn't been to in twenty years. And he knew he could never live a normal life after September 11th, so it might as well be this. Living with a rat and four turtles in a sewer under New York. Maybe he would invite his whole family down later.  
  
Mo and Donatello quickly fetched his Mom, Somia, and packed their things. Donatello exposed himself to her in the house so she could go through her panicky phase there, and so to lend credence to Mo's story that a bunch of ninja turtles had rescued her husband and they were all going to live in the sewers now. Having been so depressed the past months, she didn't get very excited until she actually saw Nasser, and then the realization hit home.  
  
And yes, this particular family lived happily ever after. Because since it's not happening in really life I had to make it happen somewhere. 


	4. Update

Hello again.  
  
It is now time to update this story.  
  
First, I have since learned the poem is A Moment of Silence By Emmanuel Ortiz.  
  
Second, now perhaps I can share some of the details of what inspired this story. The little boy I based this off of is one of four children of Rabih Haddad. Rabih Haddad, for those who don't know, was a national case in which a prominent Muslim community leader was detained for almost two years with out charges, alleged to be funneling money to Al Quida through his international charity work. With out getting all the poilitics and everything, the basic thrust of the story is that I met this kid and was moved by how this was affecting him. At the point that I met him he hadn't touched his father in more than a year, barely got to speak to him. His birthday, the families celebrations, everything was as if his Dad had died, and at that point it wasn't clear if he would ever see his Dad again, and he was so outraged, so wanting to do anything, and had that youthful spirit of "This is wrong and we have to stop it no matter what". It was also this spirit that I thought best conveyed that this Man (Rabih) was a good father, this kid loved him and it wasn't a fake love or a he's my Daddy and I have to love him, it was genuine.  
  
I didn't want to say anything specific before just in case it somehow damaged their case.  
  
But a couple months ago Rabih was secretly deported to Lebanon, the family only found out when he called them from there. His wife and the children agreed to be "voluntarily deported" a couple days later to join him.  
  
So, the child that inspired this story now lives in Lebanon, and will likely never be allowed to retun to the US. To make things more complicated, one child was a US citizen, but had to be deported to because otherwise he wouldn't have a family.  
  
This is happening all over the country. A lot. It really sucks.  
  
The End 


End file.
